Mrs. G. Gretton

Turin in 1858—Partisans of the old rÉgime—The native Protestants—The conservative party—Their hostility to Cavour—Clerical intolerance—The fashionable promenade—Turinese characteristics—The Piedmontese dialect—A marriage in high life.

The lover of strong contrasts would have enjoyed the transition from a morning spent at the Valentino to an evening at the Palazzo ——, the circles of which include the most determined codini in the kingdom. The palace itself would have been counted handsome even in a city more rich in handsome palaces, and all the accessories were in keeping; no slovenliness, no undemolished cobwebs, no traditional crevices. In all this its owners were unconsciously doing homage to the spirit of the age. A wide, well-kept marble staircase, spacious vestibule and ante-rooms, servants in liveries on which time had laid no hallowing touch, and a suite of drawing-rooms, sparingly lighted on account of the intense heat, but profusely furnished with all the modern variety of couches, causeuses, arm-chairs, rocking-chairs and divans, looking-glasses, nick-nacks, cushions, flowers, everything you could wish for, except books; of these I could not discover a trace.

In the last saloon were the guests, not formally invited, but the usual frequenters of the marquise's weekly reunions; a dozen or so of ladies, dressed in the height of Parisian fashion, either talking French or Piedmontese (the old rÉgime set their faces perversely against Italian, which the Government desires should be generally in use), and calling each other incessantly by their titles, and a score of men, all seemingly octogenarians. High in name and station, this assemblage comprised the most conspicuous partisans of the old system, and by their ceremoniousness of manner, their profound courtesies and bows, carried me back, notwithstanding the vast difference in the material accompaniments of the scene, to the antiquated conversazioni of the patricians of Ancona, in which I had yawned away so many hours.

The very way in which they greeted a bishop in violet stockings was significant. Such reverence belongs not to the present order of things. In point of animation, however, if my reminiscences did not deceive me, I should give the palm to the coteries of central Italy. The talk flowed more genially, barren of subjects as they were, than among these Turinese, with whom peevish regrets for the past, bitter allusions to the present, and Cassandra-like forebodings, furnished the staple of conversation.

Seated on the outskirts of a dreary semi-circle of ÉlÉgantes, some fragments of the discourse of a group surrounding the bishop occasionally reached my ears. It related to the opening of the Italian Waldensian or Valdese church in Genoa, the erection of which they evidently considered an act of sacrilege in the Government to have permitted. Of the four native Protestant churches built within the last six years in the Sardinian States (the others are at Turin, Nice, and Pignerol), this has been the most fiercely opposed by the clerical party. I had a specimen of the bitterness of their feelings in the stories which were mingled with their invectives. It was inexpressibly diverting to one who knew the straitened circumstances of the Valdese pastors, and the difficulties they had encountered in raising subscriptions for the building of this church, to hear of the immense bribes they employed to gain converts to their communion. Three, four, nay five thousand francs was no uncommon largesse to a hopeful catechumen![22] The circulation of Bibles was next lamented as a national calamity; the burden of the whole being that, through the impiety and atheistical toleration of Cavour, the most sacred interests of religion were in jeopardy.

It was the same amongst the women. After they had discussed their children's health and perfections, for the Piedmontese fine lady is a tender, anxious mother; the tittle-tattle of which Turin, like all small capitals, has a superabundant share; and the court news from Vienna and Naples, as if, in the degeneracy of their own monarchy, the houses of Hapsburg and Bourbon were alone worthy of their attention,—no subject could be started which failed to bring in the President of the Council as a mark for their abuse. At one moment denounced as a socialist, the next as a renegade; whatever went amiss, according to codino ideas, was laid upon him. You heard the name of Count de Cavour as often quoted in reference to his capacity for evil, as that of the Marquis of Carabas, in “Puss in Boots,” cited by the feline phenomenon as the holder of each fair domain on which the king's eyes rested.

Availing myself of my privilege as a stranger, I sat more as a looker-on than a participator in the scene, and tormented my next neighbour, an acquaintance of some years' standing, with inquiries as to the different notabilities who were present. The good comtesse, knowing my inquisitive tendencies of old, though not indeed the fatal propensity of transferring my experiences into print, was obligingly communicative; her information being, of course, tinged with the sombre hue peculiar to her school of politics.

“That fine white head belongs to the Marquis Brignole. He is the last representative of one of the oldest families in Genoa, and for many years was ambassador from our court—ah, we had a court then!—to that of France; but when the constitution was established in 1848, he resigned his post. He was then named one of the senate by the king, but his principles did not suffer him to take the oath to a form of government he disapproved. In 1855, however, when that terrible Cavour brought in his bill for the suppression of all religious orders,—”

“Except those devoted to preaching, education, and the care of the sick,” I observed, parenthetically.

“Ah! bah! that was but an insignificant exception. Where was I? Well, in such an emergency the marquis surmounted his scruples, took his seat in the upper chamber, and voted against the ministry. If his resistance was unavailing, at least he had the satisfaction of raising a noble protest in the church's behalf.”

“And that other old man, with the quick keen eye, who is sitting on the bishop's right?”

“That is the pillar of our cause, Count Solaro della Margherita. You have surely heard of him?”

Assuredly I had. Who that lives in Piedmont, or has read anything of Italian contemporary history, is not familiar with his name? For many years the absolute minister of Charles Albert, and now head of the extreme right, as it is termed, in the chamber of deputies, that small, very small section of the national representatives, which only avails itself of the privilege of sitting in parliament to endeavour to overthrow the liberties secured to the kingdom by the charter of 1848. Forty or fifty years hence the memoirs of this statesman will reveal some curious secrets. Throughout Italy he is, whether justly or not I do not pretend to say, accused of having thwarted the late King Charles Albert in every liberal design; and, strong in the support of Austria and the Jesuits, to have retarded by some years the reforms which that monarch had long been desirous of introducing.

“The young abbÉ, comtesse, who has just come in, so studied in his dress, his hair so glossy, surely he must be Don Margotti?”

“Quite right. You doubtless know all about him? Our literary champion. Yonder is his patron, the Marquis Birago.”

Both were well known to me by reputation. The young priest is editor of the “Armonia,” the chief organ of the clericals,—for by this as well as the terms codini, obscurantists, absolutists, and retrogrades, is that party equally designated,—and author of a book against England, which made a great deal of noise in Piedmont last winter. Its title was “Roma e Londra;” its purport being to demonstrate that, materially, intellectually, as well as spiritually, the Papal States were far in advance of Great Britain. The Marquis Birago, celebrated in his young days as a diplomatist and gay man of the world, has devoted his latter years to combating the spread of reform. The nominal director of the “Armonia,” he has given up the ground-floor of his palace at Turin to its printing-press and offices, and out of his own income makes up the yearly deficit in its finances; the very fact of there being a deficit at all arguing ill for the state of the public mind, not in Piedmont merely, but in the rest of the peninsula, where, of all the Sardinian newspapers, the “Armonia,” and one or two others of the same family, alone enjoy free circulation.

Besides all these claims to consideration, peculiar interest just then attached itself to the marquis and his protÉgÉ. Returned as deputies at the beginning of the winter, their elections had recently been declared invalid on the ground of religious intimidation exercised upon the voters by the parish priest; and the result of a new canvass proving unfavourable, nothing remained for them but to assume the palm of political martyrdom.

“Talk of liberty, comtesse!” cried a very infirm old general, whom I remembered having heard of as one of the incapables in the first campaign of Lombardy, as, quite excited from a conversation with the victims, he broke the formal circle, and drew a chair in front of her: “talk of liberty, why, M. de Cavour in this late affair has shown himself a perfect despot—a despot without reason or conscience! Who are to advise the common people to use their rights, since they are forsooth to have them, except their natural counsellors, their priests and spiritual directors?”

Not caring to argue whether the means employed on the occasion referred to, such as refusal of the absolution and the sacraments, did not exceed the limits usually supposed to constitute advice, I asked whether M. de Cavour had, on his sole authority, instituted this inquiry.

“Oh, of course there was the farce of a commission appointed by the chamber, or rather by that majority which is his tool, a majority of lawyers!—that despicable class which of late years has invaded every department of the State, and by their plausibility and intrigues are bidding fair to sweep away all that our forefathers held honourable or sacred. And then, as if lawyers of our own were not curse enough, we have shoals of them among the political refugees, admitted to the parliament, yes, even to the ministry!”

“Ah, true,” sighed the comtesse, “we are in a sad position; still we must not lose hope. Whenever I am unusually depressed I go and see the Duchess de ——; she is one in a thousand for constancy and courage. Do you remember, general, her spirited conduct eight years ago, at the time the Government had confined Monseigneur Franzoni, the archbishop, in the citadel?”

For the information of those who may have forgotten an occurrence which at the moment attracted all Europe's attention, it is necessary briefly to mention that the archbishop's offence consisted in peremptorily refusing the last consolations of religion to the Cavaliere di Santa Rosa on his death-bed, unless he solemnly retracted the share he had borne, as one of the ministry, in the promulgation of some ecclesiastical reforms. Not choosing to do violence to his conscience, the dying man, though devoutly attached to the observances of his church, expired, amidst the tears of his wife and friends, without receiving the viaticum or extreme unction. It was as a satisfaction to the popular indignation at this act of clerical intolerance, as well as to vindicate the authority of the Government, that the archbishop, after undergoing a few weeks' imprisonment, was banished from the country.

“What particular instance of the duchesse's spirit do you allude to, comtesse?” asked the general. “I was in Savoy at the time, and only heard the barren facts of the outrage committed on the venerable prelate.”

“Her husband was then in the cabinet, and of course implicated in this offence; but to show that she at least had no participation in it, she ordered out the old family coach with four horses, her footmen in their state liveries, and drove to the citadel, taking the most frequented streets on her way, to offer her sympathy and condolence to monseigneur. There she is, madame, nearly opposite to us.”

I had scarcely taken a survey of this modern Griselda,[23] when a stir was perceptible, a title was announced, and everybody rose. The owner of a name which will be written in history as having held a post in the reign of Victor Emmanuel's predecessor, similar to that occupied in France by a Belle Gabrielle, or a La ValliÈre, entered the saloon; a tall and commanding figure, with more than the remains of great beauty in her face. Until she took a seat, none resumed theirs.

Queenlike she sat, and with queenlike affability greeted those who advanced to speak to her, or addressed those on either hand, and talked about charitable societies of which she was the patroness with the bishop, and the last political intelligence with the ex-ambassador; complimented the lady of the house on the beauty of her children, and congratulated the comtesse on an approaching marriage in her family, graciously announcing her intention to call and see the bride's corbeille.

It was not the fact of her being there which surprised me, but the deference, the obsequiousness shown towards her. Truly, as a specimen of the moral code of the strictest circles, the most severely religious of the high society of Turin, it was sufficiently diverting. But no one present had a glimmering of this inconsistency.

“Believe me,” said the comtesse, as we parted soon after, having made an appointment for the morrow to introduce me to her niece, the bride elect, “believe me, Madame de —— is full of rare qualities. You could not wish for a better friend or adviser. Her own daughter is one of the three model wives of Turin, and reflects the highest credit on her training, which was simple, nay almost austere; at the same time nothing could surpass her maternal tenderness. I remember a sacrifice she made upon herself for three years, in hopes of obtaining the blessing of a grandchild. Passionately fond of ices, she resolutely abstained from tasting a single one till her prayers were heard!”

The next morning the comtesse and I devoted some time to the mysteries of shopping before proceeding to her sister's, whose daughter's wedding presents were to be displayed to us. The arcades or portici which line the Strada di Po, and the Piazza di Castello, a really magnificent square, are the resort of all the fashionable idlers of both sexes in Turin, and, lined on one side by handsome shops, open on the other to the light and air, sheltered alike from rain and sun, really form a very attractive promenade. As the belles flit from magasin to magasin, undulating in a maze of crinoline and flounces, they have the satisfaction of knowing that they are passed in review by the loungers at the cafÉs, as numerous under the arcades as in every other part of the town; the most redoubted of these tribunals of criticism and gossip being the CafÉ Fiorio, frequented by the cream of the aristocracy. Even the comtesse, who, though not old, was singularly void of pretension, and quiet in her deportment, thought it necessary to evince some timidity at encountering this ordeal.

“When I am alone, madame, I always make a great dÉtour to avoid passing before Fiorio's. It is astonishing what remarks are made by those messieurs, and what stories they contrive to get hold of. When there is nothing else to be said, they pull one's toilette to pieces, and are merciless if everything is not perfectly fresh and in good taste. I assure you the expense of dress now amongst us is positively frightful; and those, like me, who have not a large income, are almost compelled to renounce going much into society, unless indeed they do as some I could point out to you,—run up bills for twenty or thirty thousand francs, which their husbands will eventually be compelled to pay, at great sacrifice and inconvenience probably; for we have not fortunes in Piedmont like your English nobility.”

“It is a pity that men by their fastidiousness contribute to this extravagance.”

“Undoubtedly it is, but there is no reasoning on the subject. A mad desire for spending seems to pervade all ranks. Even in the bourgeoisie a taste for luxury and elegance has of late exhibited itself which is appalling. The wives of shopkeepers who, ten or fifteen years ago, would have esteemed themselves happy with a simple cotton print, a freshly-ironed cap, and a black silk apron, for their Sunday costume, now sweep along the Rue du Po in brocades of the value of three or four hundred francs, and with feathers in their bonnets!”

“Still, comtesse, as the example comes from above, it is not surprising it should find imitators.”

“Ah, chÈre, that is just one of the ideas of the day! For my part, I cannot understand why difference of rank should not be marked as it used to be by regulations as to dress. We should see some curious transformations then!”

By this time we had left the dreaded Fiorio's some way behind, and coming upon another cafÉ of less dazzling celebrity, the open doors and windows of which gave pleasant glimpses of spacious saloons with gilded ceilings and mirrors, crimson velvet sofas, and a profusion of little circular marble tables, the comtesse proposed that we should enter and refresh ourselves with an ice, Turin etiquette not imposing the necessity of male escort on such occasions.

Though the Anglo-Piedmontese Gallenga, rendered fastidious by a quarter of a century's sojourn in England, complains, in his recent work on his native country, of the tawdriness and dirt of the Turin cafÉs, they were so superior, in my humble scale of comparison, to those of the other parts of Italy where I had resided, that I found them most welcome and inviting. There was a luxurious sense of repose in looking forth upon the fierce sunshine on the Piazza di Castello through the softened twilight in which we sat, discussing, for the moderate consideration of twenty centimes each, two pyramidical masses of crÊme À la vanille, while plants and flowers in the window-sills, without impeding the view of the busy life without, screened those within from the gaze of the passers-by. In such an atmosphere the dolce far niente would have seemed likely to predominate, but I noticed in the people as they came and went, in the earnestness with which they read the newspapers, the quick, short sentences in which they commented to each other on their contents, even while sipping the mixture of coffee and chocolate which is the favourite beverage of the Turinese, a certain air of decision and promptitude not elsewhere to be found in Italy. Men of every grade were amongst them, from those pointed out to me by the comtesse in a whisper as senators and deputies, to some whose dress would have required no sumptuary laws to define their position. I also observed that Italian was almost universally spoken, the Piedmontese patois comparatively rarely, French not at all. This was an indication of the cafÉ's politics. By the persevering use or rejection of the Italian language, political sentiments in this country can be pretty well ascertained. The ministry, bent on its general adoption, have caused it to be substituted in the infant schools for the native dialect, of all the dialects of the peninsula the most guttural and the most mutilated, an innovation the wisdom of which it requires thorough stiff-necked codino-ism not to recognise. Instead of learning to read, as was formerly the case, in a tongue only partially understood, for no books are, or used to be, printed in Piedmontese, children are familiarized with Italian as the preliminary step. In every department over which its influence extends the Government shows the same desire; the circulation of newspapers, the presence of the emigrati, and the discussions in the chambers powerfully assisting its endeavours, which have only failed with the aristocracy. Hence Italian is much more spoken by the middle than the higher classes in Turin.

But I have digressed, while, to finish my picture, it must be added that there was less talking among the visitors at the cafÉ than would have been possible in central or southern Italy, and but little lounging. Though a few appeared listless and unemployed, to the majority time was evidently not a worthless commodity; even in the ten minutes we passed there, some of the tables near us had more than once changed occupants.

“Allons donc,” said the comtesse; “what shall we do now? Stay, there is the jeweller's where I must execute a commission for my sister, and then, if you please, we will pay her our visit.”

At the shop we encountered a lady with whom I had a slight acquaintance; one of the ÉlÉgantes of Turin, of the same political opinions, but of a more mundane turn of mind than my companion. She was elaborately dressed in visiting costume, and coming towards us with both hands extended, told the comtesse she was selecting a souvenir for her niece. Not to embarrass her choice, after a few complimentary phrases, we removed to some distance, the aunt not very graciously commenting on the announcement.

“A souvenir indeed! How I detest the indiscriminate fashion of giving presents! It confounds friends of yesterday with one's closest and dearest connections, and at last is regarded as an odious tax. Just because Madame de —— was my sister's compagne de loge last winter, when they shared a box at the opera, she fancies this attention is expected of her, or rather calculates it will give her Éclat, when all the gifts are shown, to be cited as one of the donors. Look at her now, what open sleeves, and how short! All to display her arms, she is so vain of them! You may be sure she has been exhibiting them before Fiorio's. I shall hear from my brother, who is generally there. Do you not think them too stout?”

The approach of their owner here cut short any more disparaging observations, and the house to which we were bound being close at hand, we all proceeded thither very lovingly together.

Just before we arrived I bethought myself that amidst all the rejoicing over the approaching marriage, I had not heard a single word with respect to the bridegroom's mental or personal attractions, and guardedly ventured on some inquiries concerning him.

“He is a very fine young man,” said the comtesse, seemingly indifferent to what might have been thought no inconsiderable adjunct to the favourable features of this match; “just twenty-five. ThÉrÈse is nineteen.”

Upon hearing this I hazarded the supposition that, both being young and good-looking, they were in all probability attached.

“He is certainly very much taken with ThÉrÈse, and she, as far of course as she can understand such feelings, is greatly pleased with him. I hope it may turn out well,” added the good lady dubiously, “but one always fears for these marriages of affection.” A sentiment to which the Marquise de ——, the fair one of the arms, adjusting her bracelets, uttered so fervent a response, that I at once concluded her to be a victim to this novel kind of misfortune.

The subject of these forebodings was waiting with her mother to receive us, all smiles and ecstasy, and without delay we were admitted to gaze on the glories of the trousseau and corbeille, before they were exposed to the general run of visitors. The trousseau, it is scarcely necessary to state, comprises the bride's outfit in wearing apparel, carried now-a-days in Piedmont to the most lavish profusion, twelve dozen of each description of underclothing not being considered anything out of the common way: the corbeille is a general term for all the bridegroom's presents, formerly enclosed in a basket of elegant workmanship and decoration. In these days of change, however, the genuine corbeille is replaced by an inlaid coffer, or any other sort of expensive receptacle. An elaborately-ornamented work-table had in this instance been chosen by the bridegroom to contain his offerings.

Mademoiselle ThÉrÈse stands by, radiant with joy and pride, while her mother turns the key; and there, amid satin and lace, repose two Cashmere shawls. One from India; four thousand francs could scarcely have procured it, the gay marquise hastily calculates. The other French, but so beautiful a production that the most practised eye could scarcely detect the difference. Ah, how lovely, how enchanting! But see here, that garniture of Brussels lace; flounces, the bridal veil, trimming for berthe! What, a similar set in black Chantilly! Never, never has she seen their equal. There are, besides, dozens and dozens of gloves from Jouvin's, fans, and embroidered handkerchiefs, some with the coronet of a marquise surmounting the name of ThÉrÈse, each letter a perfect study of delicate flowery needle-craft; others with her family arms united with those of the bridegroom on the same escutcheon. What precision in the work, what exquisite cambric! Who would not be married to gain such treasures?

“And the diamonds?” Even the comtesse grows excited now, as the mamma calmly touches a spring, and the casket flies open. It is the crowning stroke; few brides in Turin can boast its equal. The diadem, the sprays for the hair, the pendants, the necklace. Oh, how entrancingly beautiful they are! The marquise devours them with greedy eyes; the aunt, stifling a sigh at the thought that she has no daughter to marry, mingled perhaps with a momentary pang at the contrast to her own modest corbeille fifteen years before, looks proud and gratified,—not the less so because she has detected the emotion of the compagne de loge, on whom, since the intimacy with her sister, she bestows her intense aversion.

“But that is not all,” said the bride's mother, who, though older than my comtesse, yet, as being handsomer and much richer, still kept her place as a belle, “we have a few trifles here besides.” And a set of pearls, a watch, rich chain, and all sorts of those ornamental trifles called breloques, were successively exhibited.

“And all this from your futur?” ThÉrÈse smilingly assents. “My child, you are indeed happy!” and the marquise kisses her with warmth, mentally weighing the chances of finding for her own daughter, when she comes home from the convent where she is being educated, a match equal in wealth or munificence.

“Then there are all the other pretty presents and souvenirs,” and the mamma opens a cabinet of ivory and ebony, from the drawers of which she produces an infinite variety of morocco cases, some round, some long, some oval-shaped. Bracelets, ah, what bracelets! Enamelled, gem-encrusted, plain, arabesqued, inland, circles of emeralds and pearls, gold and coral, diamonds and rubies. Earrings too, and brooches to correspond. Crosses and lockets: a perfect shopful of trinkets. It is the realization of many a maiden's dream; surely of thine, ThÉrÈse!

Every relation of the two families, almost every acquaintance, was here represented; the ambition of not being outdone in generosity on these occasions of almost public display, leading many of the donors, as the comtesse had truly said, and as I found confirmed by general opinion, to regard as a heavy tribute to custom that which should be the spontaneous offering of friendship. But a truce to such reflections. The marquise has produced her present, and a glittering bauble of some three hundred francs' value is added to the young bride's collection.

Fortunate ThÉrÈse! Her wedding dress is now brought forward. Being summer time, white muslin has been selected as the most appropriate material, but this is so richly embroidered as to render it most costly. Her mother relates with complacency that the dressmaker has just sent her word that so magnificent a toilette de mariÉe has never issued from her work-rooms. ThÉrÈse drinks all this in with silent rapture. What would it matter if she had to marry the Beast in the fairy-tale, with the certainty he could never turn into the Prince to boot, so long as all these joys are hers? Of her future husband, except as the appendage to their possession, she clearly never thinks, never has been taught to think. For the results of a marriage of affection such as this, the comtesse need have no fears.